All The Livelong Days
by Quill To Parchment
Summary: Of mischief, mayhem, maudlinism, and the little thing called friendship that bound them together. Of stories long forgotten and brotherhoods long formed. Of being a marauder, all the livelong days.
1. Of Idiosyncrasies

_September, 1977_

It started out a normal day.

The first few days of seventh year were in fact rather less eventful than he would've liked. Perhaps he expected a little change in the usual start of term routine, but then again, every year a batch of seventh years attended their last sorting ceremony and no heavenly apparitions appeared to serenade them nor did the Great Hall burst into a sudden chorus of their greatness and the echoing chasm they would leave in their wake once they left the school.

His summer had been eventful enough for him. Eventful, actually, hardly even covered it. His cheek still stung where his mother had smote him in a shower of curses and rage and hatred that dug into his heart more than he wished to acknowledge. His fists still balled whenever he recalled standing outside his house of seventeen years, no longer his house now, for the last time as it tucked itself away between numbers eleven and thirteen in a final seal upon his banishment.

He was not loved. His mother, his father, they had never loved him; he was but a pawn in their game of pure blood domination. He was an heir, or at least, he used to be. But he was not loved, he was not petted, or held close or given kind words or even interest as such. He was taught to use silverware, to eat with finesse and to impress at the table but he was never taught to love the homely atmosphere of a family sitting together for a simple meal. He was taught to dance with perfection and grace, to speak with composure, to walk with poise, but he was not taught embrace, to show simple affection, to give comfort. He was beautiful, godlike with his patrician features but he was a statue of marble; cold and stone inside.

Whenever he carelessly tossed this comparison around Remus, Remus always gave him that mysterious half-smile and told him he was more like an egg – so perfect and smooth outside that nobody dared prod further but a melted yellow and rather sticky pool if he were to fall and break.

James would then snort and say Sirius was flattering himself and that he, James, had rather thought Sirius too be a stinky snot-nosed brat when he first met him and the only kind of marble Sirius could be compared to was that which composed his toilet seat at home. In response to which Sirius would let out a roar and jump James and they would tussle at the feet of an exasperated Remus and a crackling Peter.

Peter. He never bothered to take Peter's opinion on things but that one time he had, Peter had just given him a confused look and an 'oka-a-ay…can you help me find Remus' stash of chocolate? I think he hid it again.'

Sirius had recently concluded that the half-mad, gay, annoying feeling of inadequacy he felt around his fellow Gryffindors was actually love.

He got an idea of this from his time at the Potters' house. To say that he enjoyed himself for those brief few weeks would be a sad understatement. Mr. and Mrs. Potter were all elegant enthusiasm and wit that came with age and a well-rounded personality. It was easy to see where James got his easy confidence, frank candor and penchant for talking. He had seen how Mrs. Potter would ruffle James' hair and kiss his cheek, and the half-amused exasperation on James' face was such a perfect reflection of the sentiments Sirius associated with Remus and James and even Peter in his heart that he had no doubt that he did indeed love his mates very much.

And true to all who love, Sirius also experienced this summer, what is was like to vicariously feel the pain of a person dear to him, and though he wasn't very good at handling emotions to begin with, the added feeling of helplessness was what got to him the most. When Mr. Potter had passed away that summer, it took everything he had to stand next to James during the entire funeral and when the guests were taken to the manor and for a mourning dinner, Sirius had exchanged one look with Remus and fled, morphing into a large black dog as he bounded into the expanse of deserted forest on the outskirts of the village. Perhaps it was unfair to leave Remus and Peter to shoulder the burden but Remus had always been the strongest of them all, his own burdening outweighing any kind of extra weight that may be thrown at him, and Peter was obedient and would be much more of a help that he, Sirius, was.

James hadn't been the same for the rest of the holidays.

When he had expressed a desire not to return for seventh year, Sirius' stomach had literally dropped. No amount of bating from Sirius, or reasonable convincing from Remus, or flashing of James' new Head Boy badge by Peter could shake James, for he felt that as the man of the house now, it was his duty to relieve his mother of the burden of caring for the entire empty house on her own so soon after the tragedy. But it was Eleanor Potter who had finally made the call when she had refused to be looked after, for she was a Potter, and more so than James, and Potters were brave and self-sacrificing and spared everybody around them from having to deal with their troubles.

James had regained some of the old cheerfulness once they had stepped back into the castle, and the rest of the time he threw wholeheartedly into balancing his duties as Head Boy with those as Quidditch Captain. Sirius had to agree with Remus, however grudgingly, that Lily Evans was helping unknowingly in her own way too by yelling at James periodically and though Sirius hated her with a burning anger, the familiarity of the gesture really seemed to be helping James get a grip on his life.

It had been a week since the start of term, and James was scratching away a rough Quidditch schedule on a spare parchment in front of Sirius, and Peter was reading the papers next to James, and Remus was being very quiet in his seat beside Sirius, and Sirius was watching the Slytherin table, and all in all the day was off to a normal start.

"Anything to report, Peter?" Remus asked suddenly, resurfacing from the bout of brooding that he'd recently become very prone to falling into.

James paused in his writing, hand tense.

Peter cleared his throat behind the paper. "Elven Toot from the Department of Magical Mishaps went missing three days ago. The aurors didn't find any signs of struggle at his home. The Head of the Department says people under him disappear on a regular basis and reckons that Toot will reappear in the fifth floor toilet tomorrow morning. The wife claims she didn't hear anything unusual from him while she was on vacation. Blimey, and what a wife. How do you think this Toot fellow snagged a bird like that?"

"He must be filthy rich," James reasoned, "Is she a looker, Pete?"

"I wouldn't trust his judgment. Peter is attracted to anyone well endowed in the region of the chest," Remus said, buttering his toast.

"He must be madly lusting after Crabbe, then, have you seen his pair? " Sirius added.

Peter glared balefully at both Remus and Sirius. Toot was only one of the thousands of missing person cases that flooded the papers every day, and amidst the terror and morbidity looming outside the castle walls, it was all they could do to keep themselves upbeat for the sake of their own sanity.

"Well? Is she, you know…?" James gestured towards his chest.

Remus looked pointedly at Peter with a raised eyebrow. Peter turned an interesting shade of red before clearing his throat with a reluctant nod and sliding down in his seat. Remus smirked triumphantly and returned back to his neglected toast. James whistled.

"Anyway," Peter continued loudly as Sirius winked at James, "There was an attack in a small town in East Ireland. No casualties reported. The town's in shambles though, completely razed. All muggle, I believe."

It was relatively good news. Heartened, Peter turned the page. "The Order of the Merlin was awarded to some fellow from Australia for his work on the properties of wolfsbane. Take a look - this might interest you, Moony. There's been…"

A loud explosion from the Slytherin table interrupted Peter's report, causing a minor apocalypse involving a horde of green-clad students squawking through their sudden profuse growth of nostril hair and a major stampede of individuals from the teachers' table. The Headmaster continued smiling insanely into his porridge as the ensuing mayhem waltzed under his nose. McGonagall was turning red. It took a few seconds for Sirius to stop crackling in triumph before Peter could continue again.

"…been a bit of a breakthrough in the usage of aconite in the field of medical potioneering and experts reckon that this new information can help them treat patients suffering from dragon pox, spleen malady and even perhaps lycanthropy."

In unison, Peter, Sirius and James all turned to look at Remus, who reached over for the jam and then began to carefully spoon out a portion. This arrangement prevailed as they politely waited for Remus to finish the essential task of spreading jam on his lovingly buttered toast before assuming his role as one very delighted lycanthrope.

When he failed to comply even after his toast was halfway down his throat, James cleared his throat. Remus spared him a glance.

"Yes?" he asked politely.

"I don't know, Wormtail, did you hear something?"

"Padfoot…"

"No. It wasn't like I was reading anything important."

"That's what I thought."

"Padfoot," James repeated sternly.

"No Prongs, it's quite alright," Remus said calmly, wiping his knife on his napkin, "I understand that you expected me to be more responsive. Sorry to disappoint."

"Is everything alright?" James asked him quietly.

"Everything's fine," Remus said lightly, his voice trilling in a brittle way. He suddenly pushed his plate away from himself and got up. "I'm feeling a bit queasy. We have half an hour till class starts, I think I'll lie down a bit. Don't wait up."

Three heads turned simultaneously and their surprise had hardly registered before Remus disappeared around the corner of the entrance.

"What was that about?" Peter asked blankly.

James quietly folded his paper. "Leave it."

"I most definitely will not 'leave it'," Sirius said harshly, getting to his feet. James gave him a long look.

"Honestly Padfoot, don't, he wants to be alone…"

"Shut the fuck up," Sirius snapped at him, "Stop fucking acting like you're suddenly the adult around here."

James rolled his eyes, but complied and continued folding his paper with pursed lips. Peter looked in the opposite direction. Sirius roughly swung out of his seat and stormed after Remus.

Things had changed drastically since last year. Remus was a lot moodier, a lot more reserved, a lot more withdrawn. He would have long spells where he would simply refuse to talk, refuse to react, as if he had no energy left to make the effort of procuring expressions on his face. There was something troubling him which he regularly mulled over. His father's death last year was a huge blow to his fragile state of happiness, and last year had been rather hard on him, but even then he'd hardly been as unresponsive about it.

Well, no actually, he had been.

And then there was James, suddenly the mature one, the adult, the compassionate and sensible Head Boy, and his sagacity and solemn superiority pissed Sirius off. He did not understand this James because they had always identified with each other's outlooks before and now James was becoming more and more alienated from him.

Some idiosyncrasies of their group still prevailed. Sirius seemed to be the only one consistent in his habits; he still raged, he still pouted, he still flirted, he still laughed, he still strutted.

And well, Peter still loved to gorge.

Sirius didn't knock, he simply barged into their dormitory. Remus had long since given up trying to protect his privacy from invasions of Sirius Black's presumptuousness. Sirius knew where Remus was. Sirius knew Remus like he knew himself. They were kin, bound in canine understanding and a mutual darkness that resided in their souls however much they tried to hide it. He could picture Remus sitting behind the curtains of his four-poster bed, cross-legged, chin resting on his hand as he hunched over, tracing intricate patterns on his neatly laid blanket with his pale, slender fingers.

Some idiosyncrasies of their group still prevailed.

Sirius tore open the curtains, not surprised to see his mental picture taking the form of reality before him, not surprised when Remus made no sign of acknowledgement as Sirius threw himself on Remus' bad, yanking the curtains closed as the air took on a blood-like glow from the light filtering through the red of the drapes around them.

Sirius lay back on his elbows, feet propped up on Remus' pillow as he observed the other boy with a cocked head and humorless smile. Remus did not speak. He ran a finger across an invisible swirl, thin lips whispering ghosts of words to himself. Sirius watched his fingers; Remus' fingers fascinated him. They were grace in flesh and bone.

"I wish you wouldn't barge in like that," Remus said eventually, evenly.

That's bullshit, and Sirius knew it, because this was routine, and Remus would put a lock on the door if he wished to thwart Sirius, but he never did, and Sirius was never thwarted.

"That's bullshit," Sirius told him calmly.

Remus' fingers paused. Sirius reached for the back of his hand and began tracing light circles there with the tips of his own fingers. Such pale hands, veins visible beneath white, scarred skin.

"Why did the report on wolfsbane upset you?" Sirius asked, voice hushed. It felt odd to use a hushed voice, for he only ever used it around Remus, only ever did such odd, intimate things around Remus, and it had been a long time since the limelight of Sirius' attention had fallen on Remus and Sirius had gotten a chance to approach him like this.

Remus didn't withdraw his hand and Sirius continued his ministrations.

"Do you think I haven't heard all this before?" Remus responded quietly, "Do you think I wasn't excited, hopeful the first time I did?"

Here he laughed, an unhappy, sardonic laugh. "Hearing it fifty-four times in twenty different languages takes the glory out it, Sirius."

Sirius looked keenly at him. Remus avoided his eye, turning his head. His brown hair, in need of a haircut, fell conveniently over his face, shadowing the amber of his eyes. "I've heard it all before. Do you think we haven't tried? Because we have. We've tried everything."

"I know," Sirius murmured. "You went to Greece in third year. And Romania the summer after first."

"And Norway and India and Iceland and Palestine and…well, I had made a list once. Twenty-seven countries. Fifty-one rumored cures. Seventeen of them involved puncturing of flesh. Twelve included heavy doses of poisonous drugs."

He spoke in neutral tones as if he'd used these words till they were drained of emotion. His eyes flashed as they met Sirius'.

"Five made use of wolfsbane. None of them worked."

Remus closed his eyes. "None of them will. I don't want you lot to carry false hopes for me. And I don't need your pity when the latest attempt won't work."

Sirius shrugged. "I won't give you pity. And it could work, you know."

Remus shrugged in return. "Maybe."

There was a comfortable silence as Remus' fingers continued to dance across his covers as if playing a tune and Sirius watched their progress with a fascination that never seemed to dwindle. It was a rather captivating activity, one of those mad things Sirius found that he enjoyed.

Sirius finally tore away from his musings and looked up. "Coming to class?"

"Yeah…okay." Remus said carefully, swinging his legs over the side of his bed as light filtered into their private quarters. Sirius followed him out, stretching his limbs in a feline fashion.

"So what do you think of Toot's knockers?"

Remus shot him an amused glance over his shoulder. "Must I have an opinion on them?"

"Kind of difficult not to," Sirius smirked, falling into step with Remus as they walked down the dormitory steps.

"They are quite…impressive. But I'm more of a legs person."

"Are you? I didn't…no, actually, come to think of it, your eyes always were drawn to the nether regions when you talked to girls."

"If I talked to girls."

"If you talked to girls," Sirius admitted. He stepped out of the portrait hole and turned to wait for Remus to catch up. "Evans has a nice pair."

"Of legs?"

"Yeah."

"Don't let James hear you say that."

"I'm sure he'll be a sport about it. Is that why you were pining after her last year?"

Remus put his hands in his pockets leisurely and snorted. "There's this concept, Sirius, it's called personality. I fell in love with Lily, not her admittedly wonderful legs."

"If you say so, Moony."

The chatter of students filled the silence interspersing their conversation. As they turned the corner, Sirius caught sight of the sky outside.

"The full's tonight," Sirius said cheerfully.

Remus fingered the shoulder strap of his bag and gave Sirius a sideways look and tired smile. Beside him, Sirius winked outrageously at a pretty Ravenclaw, and a few minutes later, James and Peter caught up to them, James prattling on about the latest Quidditch updates and Peter still eating his smuggled muffins. By the time all four Marauders walked into Charms, things were rather back to normal, or at least, as normal as things could possible be just then.

Some idiosyncrasies still prevailed. And that, for them, was an infallible source of relief.


	2. Of Quidditch

_September (same day), 1977_

He would be a blur to those who looked on from the stands, but there was nobody there to see. He streaked across the sky in a whirlwind of red Quidditch robes, the lone figure on the field and he flew at breakneck speed.

James Potter loved to fly.

When he was on his broom, nothing else mattered. When he was in the air, he felt like he belonged there. It was an unquenchable thirst, flying, a dangerous passion that dominated every fiber of who he was.

He flew often when he needed to think, for flying was cathartic to his conscious mind and that left him space to deal with whatever muddle his subconscious had managed to get into. Sometimes he reminisced while he flew, reliving precious memories and fond recollections of playing on the field.

This was who James Potter was. He was meant to fly.

* * *

**_October, 1972_**

"_Oi you!"_

_Remus looked up from his book to see who was shouting. The players on the Quidditch field had paused in their game and were now hovering in midair, gazing towards the stands. For a wild moment, Remus thought they were glaring at him, and wondered whether bringing a book outside was banned, perhaps, but the words that were spoken next mollified him._

"_Yeah you, midget, with the glasses."_

_Remus, Sirius and Peter turned simultaneously to look at James, who was standing on the benches, his face flustered. One of the girls, the younger one who Remus had seen doing the loop in midair, maneuvered her broomstick closer to the stands. She was scowling. James tilted his head slightly at her and pointed to himself._

"_Me?"_

"_Yeah you. Shut up."_

_James looked slightly affronted, but he did not look like shutting up was on his list of priorities. Instead he hollered, "You did the move wrong, you know."_

_Neither, Remus noted dryly, was self-preservation. But this was James Potter after all. Self-preservation wasn't even in his dictionary._

_The pale girl's eyes bulged, "Excuse me?"_

"_Little bit hard on hearing? I said you did the move wrong."_

_Some of the other players were inching curiously towards the stands as well, wondering why their game had been interrupted. One of them, a fourth-year girl with a long black plait, pulled up next to the younger girl._

"_Is there a problem here?"_

"_The midget reckons I got my moves wrong," the pale girl told her scathingly, "He reckons he knows better."_

_The older girl looked bemused as she turned to James, "What's your name?"_

"_James Potter," he told her, puffing into his gloved hands and rubbing them over his nose, "And I don't reckon, I know so."_

"_Oh do you now…"_

"_Wil, drop it," the older girl said sharply, "We're wasting time. Ignore him a bit, he'll go away…"_

_Next to him, Sirius was silently tugging on James' robes, trying to get him to sit down. James took no notice, and he stared indignantly. "I will not go away, and if you only listen I can tell you exactly what you did wrong…"_

_The younger girl crackled, "Oh-ho! You'll tell me, will you? That's grand. Why don't you just hop on a broom and get up here and show me, yeah?"_

"_Alright," James said resolutely, tugging his robes out of Sirius' fists, and making to get off the stands. Remus raised his eyebrows and Sirius gave James an exasperated look which he took no notice of, as he hopped down from the seat. Besides him, Peter shifted nervously._

"…_going on here. We're wasting time," the Gryffindor Quidditch captain, a broad, sandy-haired fifth-year, had now pulled up near them, looking resolute and not very happy._

"_No you wait Terry, the ickle firsty wants to teach me moves," the younger girl crackled almost madly, bobbing her head of fiery curls towards James, who was now marching down the steps to the broom shed._

"_Second-year," Sirius corrected automatically, his voice weak. The three players ignored him. The rest of the team, bored of throwing the quaffle at each other, was now drifting towards their gaggle._

"_Hey, what's the hold up?" one of the boys, who Remus guessed was a beater, if his large wooden club was anything to go by, complained loudly._

_The girl with the plait rolled her eyes, "Kid incensed Wilder."_

_The captain frowned and looked at James, "You mean him?"_

"_That's right. Potter, his name is. Full of himself, he is. I'd like to knock him down a peg or two, if you don't mind," Wilder said casually, leaning backwards on her broom._

"_I most certainly do mind," the captain told her sternly, "if you would have left him to be he'd have gone away."_

"_Let him make a fool of himself, it'll keep him away for good," the girl muttered, as everybody watched the tiny figure of James at the foot of the stands, adjusting himself over his broom before kicking of into the air. The players watched him, slightly surprised that he hadn't fallen off his broom yet. James hovered in the middle of the pitch in midair, and turned towards the stands to face them. He looked utterly unconcerned, and in spite of the ridiculousness of James' actions, Remus couldn't help but admire his easy confidence and audacity._

"_Hope you're watching," he hollered, quaffle tucked neatly under his arm. Then, without warning, he threw the quaffle in the air with all his might, adjusted his broom and streaked at a perfect forty five degree angle towards the ground. The quaffle made a graceful arch through the sky, and as it crossed its highest point and started its curved downward descent, James abruptly pulled up at a right angle, till he was just a level below the descending quaffle, then aligned himself to the ground and traced a perfect semicircle, upside down, making a graceful loop above the red ball, and then completing the circle, catching the quaffle at the lowest point, before pulling up sharply. He turned back to the stands, once again with the quaffle tucked neatly under his arm, looking pleased._

_Remus, Sirius and Peter looked mildly impressed, though they weren't surprised at his skill, having seen him practicing relentlessly all of last year. The Gryffindor Quidditch team, on the other hand, looked stunned. One or two of the players laughed appreciatively, and the beater near the stands whistled._

"_And that, folks, is how it's done," James yelled, grinning slightly. Then he turned to Wilder, looking solemn. "You turned too early, see, so you had to pull up sharp at the last minute to catch the quaffle right. You should turn two seconds after you've swerve up. That little trick's always helped me."_

_Wilder was staring at him. The girl with the plait grinned hugely at her. "He's outdone you, Wilder. Talented little bugger."_

"_I'd say," the captain looked at James with avid interest, "Oi, Potter!"_

_James flew towards them, slightly breathless._

"_What year are you in?"_

"_Second," James said quickly._

"_Think you can manage to show me some more of what you can do?" The captain asked. James looked surprised, but delighted._

"_Of course!" He said, his lopsided grin slowly taking over his face._

"_Good," the captain said firmly, "I want you here at six sharp. Don't bring anything. They have spare brooms and Quidditch robes in the shed."_

"_Yessir," James said breathlessly, and then, as if he couldn't no longer keep it in, he burst, "Am I on the team?" _

_The players laughed loudly._

"_We'll see," the captain said calmly, but he was smiling slightly. James's face was glowing._

* * *

His team. His life. And now his responsibility. He loved his team like nothing else in the world because these were the people who understood his love for the game, these were the people who shared his ecstasy on his broom, these were the people who flew beside him under the immense pressure the prevailed during each and every game.

He respected them, all of them, and his earliest memories of his team were dominated by this feeling. Wider, Harvey, Crawford, Williams, Mackintosh, Rivers…all brilliant at their game.

He especially remembered Loid Crawford, star chaser of the Gryffindor Quidditch team for seven years, and James Potter's personal idol. Crawford played with a grace that made you believe that he was a part of his broom, and when he played, he never had to fight to catch up with the game; the game had to fight to catch up with him. His calm, unassuming manner, his intense passion for what he was so good at, had eventually won him an immediate spot on Puddlemore United right after he left school after James' second year.

He remembered Crawford well.

* * *

**_October, 1972_**

"_Congratulations Potter."_

_James turned around to see Wilder leaning casually at the door, still in her Quidditch robes. Her curly hair was matted with mud and she was at least the same height as he was, but she was still an imposing sight. James had seen her on the field today, seen how she'd played, not that he hadn't cheered her on loudly with the rest of the school all of last year, but playing alongside her, he knew how excellent at her game she was. _

_James had a twisted kind of respect for her, and as such, decided to adopter a politer tone._

_He nodded his head in inclination, "Thanks. Er…am I on the team?"_

_She observed her nails interestedly. "You're well on your way to it, next year, if not this one."_

"_But what're my chances for this time?" James pressed. He was anxious, and he didn't know how he was going to wait it out the next few days._

_Wilder shrugged, "How am I supposed to know? Williams calls the shots."_

_She eyed him again, taking in the way he was fidgeting with his hair, and her eyes softened a bit, "Williams is looking for something specific. He was really scrutinizing the game during the tryouts, and though there were some pretty decent options out there, he wasn't happy. But he's pretty cheerful right now, so he obviously saw something today he hadn't then."_

_It wasn't a confirmation, but it eased James' nerves a bit. Williams was happy, which obviously meant he'd consider James. James tilted his head and studied the girl in front of him. She clearly didn't like him much, but she wasn't all that bad either._

_Wilder cleared her throat. "Anyhow, Williams has told me to inform you that he'll announce his decision by Sunday. It should be on the notice board in the common room by breakfast."_

"_Right. Thanks."_

_Wilder straightened up. With a nod in James' direction, she left the room leaving James, once again, in a state of slight apprehension._

_He cleared up the room after he was done, and ten minutes later, he started to head back to the castle. He cast a glance at the pitch, and saw that Harvey and Williams were having a serious discussion near the keeper's hoops. On the stand, a lone figure was lounging near the upper seats, feet propped up in front of him. On a sudden whim, James turned back to the pitch and made way toward the stands._

_When he got closer, his hunch was confirmed. Loid Crawford was reclined slightly on his seat, gazing serenely at Harvey and Williams up on the ground. Banishing the slight tingle of nervousness at approaching the older boy, James slid into his row and stopped next to him._

"_Mind if I join you?"_

_Crawford tilted his head to inspect James, and then gave him a small smile and swept his hand towards the seat next to him. James lowered himself on the bench gingerly, sitting stiffly on the edge of his seat. Dusk had started to prevail, and the chill had started to settle in along with it. James pulled his cloak slightly tighter around himself and sat quietly, watching the two figures on their brooms on the pitch and wondered if it was him they were discussing so intently._

"_They're brainstorming a move Harvey's come up with," Crawford said, as if reading James' mind, "He's been telling us about it for days now. It's quite brilliant, actually. Something else to make Terry's day. He seems in good spirits."_

"_That's what Wilder said," James replied. Crawford glanced at him._

"_She told you that?"_

"_Yeah. She reckons he's looking for something specific. Said that he saw something on the pitch today that he hadn't seen during tryouts."_

"_She's right," Crawford said. Then, "When did you talk to her?"_

"_In the changing rooms. She came to congratulate me," James said._

_Crawford gave him a startled look. "She came to congratulate you?"_

"_Well," James relented, "Actually Williams told her to pass on a message. But she did congratulate me, yeah."_

_Loid Crawford looked vaguely surprised, "That's unusual."_

"_What's unusual? Didn't I deserve it?" James asked indignantly._

_Crawford flashed him a grin, "You did, and you played pretty brilliantly. Only, it's not like Wilder to acknowledge things like that. Especially in people who showed her up the first time they met her."_

_James looked sheepish, but Crawford was grinning in amusement. "But I mean, if she congratulated you…"_

"_It was a congratulation," James muttered, "Not a declaration of undying comradeship."_

"_Coming from Wilder, you can pretty much take it as one," Crawford snorted. He tilted his head back, as if thinking very deeply about something, and when he spoke, his voice was reminiscent, "Wilder's a right specimen. There isn't another like her, which is a pretty big relief; I mean, imagine what the world would come to with multiple Wilders. But she's a good bird. Rough around the edges and takes a hell lot of wheedling to get so much as a grunt of approval out of, but she has her own ways of showing that she likes, or at least, respects you."_

"_Bit presumptuous, isn't it?"_

"_And she has every right to be. She expects the very best, and she lives up to it herself too. Made it in the team last year, didn't she? For all her crazed temper and snappy retorts, Williams wouldn't dream of giving her up. She's got talent, a lot of talent, and spunk to make something of it. People stay away from her. Well, usually."_

_Crawford tossed a grin at James._

"_She's not used to being shown up. But you did that, and she let it pass because you also showed her that you're not a doddering fool who simply wanted to spark her temper, and that you have talent. If there's anything that Wilder respects in people, it's either their guts or their skills – she appreciates only people who are best at what they do. And you, my friend, albeit at the price of a blow to her self-esteem, proved you had both. You've won her approval."_

_James wasn't sure what to make of that, only that he was relieved he wasn't in her bad books. He rather thought being on the receiving end of Wilhelmina Wilder's spite was most definitely somewhere he wouldn't want to find himself._

* * *

James pulled up short in the middle of the field, sweaty hand gripping his broom as he panted. He looked up at the goal posts in front of him and suddenly he could hear the crowds roaring in the stands, the commentator yelling out the score, his fellow Chasers grinning beside him in anticipation.

He closed him eyes, feeling the wind whipping his hair as memories engulfed him in nostalgia and a rushing desire to relive his best and his worst. He could picture Marlene ducking bludgers like she was born to, Wilder maneuvering through hordes of opponents like it was the easiest thing in the world.

He missed Wilder. She was invariably something like a mentor, a friend, and she understood him, the game, his love for it, better than he gave her credit for. Her wild bouts of temper and her verbal whiplashes were somehow his lifeline.

James chuckled, recalling some of his worst moments on the field, some incidents that made a resonating impact on him, and they somehow involved him driving Wilder to her limit and it backfiring on himself. Somehow his entire relationship with Wilder could be summed as just that.

Oh yes, Wilder was not one to mess with.

* * *

**_February,_ _1975_**

"_OI!"_

_Above the wild ecstasy of the crowd that stretched till halfway down the pitch, James could just barely make out the angry yell. Such was the crowd – mad with happiness, beyond reasoning, and James was in the thick of it, at the centre, above them all from his perch on their shoulders. Their yelling and chanting was for him, and he loved it._

"_OI YOU, MIDGET, I'M TALKING TO YOU."_

_James waved merrily at the crowd in a vague attempt to address the familiar voice. Amidst the masses of golden and red flashing under the afternoon sun, he could hardly hope to find her._

"_Put him DOWN I say!"_

_It was ridiculous and rather embarrassing how hastily his human palanquin dismantled at the utterance of the command and suddenly, he found himself standing in a circular clearing with spectators bordering its perimeter in expectant masses. James dusted himself off calmly and turned questioningly to the person hovering dangerously a few feet in front of him. The girl hopped off her broom and glared at him. James held his ground coolly. The crowd peopling the perimeter quieted down._

"_Listen up, midget," Wilder scowled. James made a show of looking around and then pointed questioningly at himself in surprise._

"_Don't shit with me," Wilder snapped, "I'm not interested in your cocky little show. What I'd like to know is what you think you were playing at out there on the field today, because I sure couldn't tell."_

"_A win," James cocked his head at her, "rather obviously."_

"_Yeah? What were you trying to win, a good snog? Because I swear Potter, if this has anything to do with that stupid airhead of a Ravenclaw you're dating…"_

"_Hey, watch it," James scowled at her. The crowd murmured amongst themselves and James was suddenly acutely aware of it._

_Wilder fixed him with a smirk._

"_I got you your win, didn't I?" James continued, nettled._

"_OH well gee, thanks Potter, we really owe you one, mate," Wilder said in loud, exaggerated tones. "Thanks, really. It must have been such a hindrance to snag a win when you had obviously more important motives on your mind, eh?"_

"_Shut up," James muttered, face flaming as he realized in panic what Wilder was getting at._

"_What, you think nobody realized? You think we wouldn't call you out on it eventually?" Wilder taunted, taking a step forward, "How stupid do you think we are? How stupid do you think **she** is? I know who you want to impress, everyone does, and it's not your girlfriend, is it? Did you honestly believe that a few neat tricks up in the air and cute maneuvers on your broom would win her over?"_

"_Shut UP!" James bellowed. His ears were suddenly ringing and he wished the crowd would just disappear._

_Wilder didn't comply. She sneered. "I'm telling you as it is, and since nobody's bothered to inform you of the obvious, I think I'll do the honor of it. Give it up. She's beyond you. The only way she'd ever even consider you would be if she could see past all your fucking self-importance but even then all that you'd be left with is more of it. The only thing that wasn't fake about you was your talent on your broom but even that's become some sort of joke to you, hasn't it?"_

_James was frozen. He couldn't speak, couldn't defend himself, because Wilder hit where it hurt, because her blow left him speechless. James Potter didn't give a flying fuck what people said to him, James Potter didn't care what people thought, but Wilder and knocked him clean off his feet._

"_You don't know anything about me," he managed to spit out. Wilder covered the distance between them, teeth bared. She was a head shorter, but somehow much more intimidating than that should have made her._

"_Maybe. But you know what? I don't give a fuck. You mess with my game, with my team, and I will squash you like a bug. There's no place for amateurs here."_

_He had never felt more humiliated in his life. Suddenly he felt stupid and young in his gold and red robes, he felt like a martyr, like Wilder had sacrificed his dignity in an attempt to make him an example to everybody. _

_Wilder frowned at him, her storm apparently having abated, leaving behind something akin to pity. "You're nothing but a sham behind that bravado, Potter, and I feel sorry for you."_

_She didn't give him another look as she hopped on her broom and fled away, leaving James in a circle of silent spectators, ego wounded and cheeks stinging with mortification and hurt and anger._

_James didn't wait for the murmuring of the crowd to reach his ears and he didn't heed their cursory glances as he stormed to the changing rooms, hacking his way through the now subdued crowd. He slammed the door shut inside, relief flooding him at the safety of a physical barrier between him and the outside world._

_He slid to the ground, slumping at the foot of the door and staring at his broom. Wilder was wrong, she was wrong, because nothing could take away his love for flying, nothing could mar the pristine nature or what he felt for the sport, nothing in the world. Wilder was wrong, he was not fake, because the one thing he prided himself on (in addition to a million others; it couldn't be helped, he was just that talented) was his candor, his frankness, his refusal to wear a mask or hide any facet of who he was. _

_James was not a sham._

_Wilder knew precisely where to hit. Her insults were akin to her quaffle; every winning goal was a result of perspicacious calculations and shrewd insight. She hit where it hurt the most, and in those five minutes she'd ruthlessly pulled out every single one of his insecurities for the entire student body of Hogwarts to see._

_It was far beyond what he deserved and he was burning with shame and anger and indignation._

_There was a gentle knocking at the door. James scrambled to his feet, face hardening defensively as somebody slipped into the changing room and shut the door behind them._

_Brenda Mackintosh faced James quietly, scrutinizing his face. "Hey."_

_James balled his fists and pursed his lips. "You heard everything, didn't you?"_

"_Yeah, I did," Brenda said quietly._

"_Nice of you to drop in to my defense," James said scathingly, "Really appreciated the help out there."_

_Brenda shot him a funny look and shrugged as she pulled off the Keeper's armor off her Quidditch robes, "Since when does James Potter need help?"_

_James scowled, crossing his arms over his chest, "You think what she did was right, don't you? You agree with her."_

_Brenda straightened her shirt and rolled her eyes, "What do you want, James, reassurance? You want me to deny whatever she said? Would that make you feel better?"_

"_I want you to deny it because it's not true!" James demanded._

"_I wouldn't say all of it was false either," Brenda shot back, "You know Wilder doesn't like when you bring your personal issues out on the field, and she especially hates it if you use the game for personal means. And frankly, as Captain, I agree with her."_

_James simply scowled. Brenda untangled her knotted braid and combed her hair with her fingers. She sighed. "James, we all know how much Quidditch means to you, how much flying means to you, but the way you've been acting this year, the fact is in serious doubt. It's like Wilder said, we don't care who you are outside the field but when you're playing, you're James Potter, Gryffindor Chaser, and one of the best damn flyers our team has ever seen. There's no place on my team for your arrogance, you hear?"_

_Brenda tossed her braid over her shoulder and gathered her things, "I didn't stop her not because I agreed with what she said, hell, I doubt she agreed with what she said, but frankly, you needed to be taken down a notch. Now suit up and get your whipped ass back to the common room, there's still a victory to be celebrated. And you can punch Wilder over the pumpkin pasties your friends have smuggled, I'm sure she'll appreciate it."_

_Brenda gave him a wary smile before she left. James stared down at his feet, mulling over what she said. He left the changing room half an hour later, broom held resolutely in one hand._

* * *

"Oi!"

James slowed down to a halt, squinting at the ground to see who had called him. He turned his broom and flew down to the figure in red Quidditch robes and a keeper's outfit clutching a broom at his side. James gave a friendly nod as he hovered in front of him.

"Alright, Winchester?"

Adam Winchester gave a lopsided grin, "looks like you're having fun up there. Mind if I join?"

James grinned back, "Hop on then. I need a Keeper anyway, it's getting too easy up there by myself."

Adam hopped on his broom and shot towards the goalposts. Nothing more was said as they practiced together in silence, occasionally tossing a teasing comment or offhand compliment. Words weren't needed to fill in the gaps, because their panting breaths somehow refreshed their minds a lot better, and their graceful partnership on the field was a better conversation than any, and talking was for the breakfast table or the common room. On the pitch, they wanted to forget.

It was almost night by the time they finally descended.


	3. Of Train Rides

_September, 1971_

The elder boy heaves his trolley forward. They reach the brick pillar between platform nine and ten, earning looks from all the muggles as they passed by. The mother is a rather unpleasant looking woman, stately, with expensive attire and pale skin that seems to never have seen the light of the day, and deep grey eyes, and unpleasant on the whole. Two boys, one clinging to her robes like a lifeline and the other heaving a great heavy trolley stacked with the oddest assortment of items from a golden cage housing a beautiful tawny owl to a polished wooden trunk hunkering at the bottom, walk beside her. They are beautiful boys, no doubt, with patrician features, finely woven ensembles and a gait that speaks of elegance having been taught and hammered into their subconscious habits from the moment they learnt how to walk.

Yet they are less boys and more walking portraits or marble statues and the look in their eyes speaks of a nonexistent childhood and a cold, forced independence. The mother has one sinewy hand permanently latched onto the elder boy's shoulder, and perhaps that isn't so odd a gesture in itself, but the tense muscles of the boy's shoulders, the slight purse of the woman's lips and the way her nails dig just slightly into the material of his cloak give the vibe that it has more to do with admonition than affection.

They pause in the middle of the bustling platform.

The three huddle together as if quite convinced that the bustle of people around them will converge and swallows them whole, and their twisted expressions make one believe that they fear for their health and sanitary wellbeing. Indeed, the look the woman seems to be casting at the folks around her make them all cringe and check themselves for anything particularly nasty hanging off of their coats or out of their trouser pockets.

The boys however, don't seem to share their mother's acute distaste of innocent bystanders as much and are instead watching the stream of crowd around them with something akin to fascination. The mother notices this, and she digs her fingers painfully into her son's shoulder.

"Keep you eyes to yourself, Sirius," she hisses in rasping tones.

"Yes mother," is his low, toneless reply, but he continues to cast surreptitious glances at his surroundings.

The younger boy, so like his brother, peeks out from behind his mother and whispers something. His mother's nostrils flare but she speaks in even tones, and she seems to be addressing both her boys. The younger listens with rapt attention.

Sirius isn't listening however. He has caught sight of another boy.

The concept of a boy is positively alien to him. He has been introduced to children his age, two or three perhaps, but he doesn't interact with them. He knows the procedure; he is to show them around the house, educate them on the lines of tapestries peopling the walls and then politely ask them if they wish to take a beverage before leading them back to the hall, where they are to sit stock still with the adults, silent unless spoken to, for they are not 'little boys', but heirs to The House of Notts, of the Malfoys or the Lestranges. He has seen himself in the mirror countless times, but the face that peers back at him is always either dolled up in expensive green velvet or heavy golden dress robes or something equally prickly and unpleasant. _He_ is not simply a boy, but the heir to The House of Blacks, after all.

But there, right there on the platform, is a real live _boy_, one who wears pants and a shirt, one who plays on toy broomsticks with his friends, and climbs guava trees in his backyard and picks bugs out of the grass and does all those things that Sirius has seen little boys do on the street outside the window, the window on the topmost floor of their house that faces the London street outside and which his father has forbidden him from look out of.

This boy is no older than he is, by the looks of it, but he is a bit smaller and peaky looking, with thick brown hair and bright amber eyes. He is talking quietly to a lady, his mother perhaps, who is bending on her knees in front of him, unconsciously smoothing his hair out of his face as he speaks. She is a very pretty lady, with fresh blond curls and the same shade of gold circling her pupils. A man hovers nearby, tall, rough, and tired-looking.

"…can't go through the barrier, mother. Only magical folks can," Sirius catches the boy explaining softly to the woman.

The mother gives an absent pat on the boy's cheek and says, "That's quite alright, father will take you inside then, love."

She pulls him close, giving him a brief hug as the rest of what she is saying is muffled by his hair. Her stance is oddly protective. Then she straightens up, giving his head one last awkward pat and steps back. The father puts his slender hand on the boy's shoulder in a reassuring grip and steers him to the magical barrier with the boy pushing his trolley in front of him. They disappear into the brick pillar together.

Mrs. Black watches them with a sneer. She draws Regulus closer to her, as if afraid that he'd catch whatever streak of uncultured upbringing the family of three has, in those two minutes, managed to convince Mrs. Black of possessing.

"Filthy commoners," Mrs. Black hisses, "such flagrant demonstrations in company…They have no sense of propriety."

She continues to mutter under her breath, and then digs her bony fingers into Sirius' back, prodding him towards the barrier. Sirius braces himself against the trolley and breaks out into a run. He closes his eyes as he nears impact, and then opens them when he hears a long-drawn whistle. He has made it to platform nine-and-three-quarters.

There are so many students. Sirius has never seen such a magnitude of folks his age in one spot at one time. Little siblings chase each other around the platform, old friends greet each other enthusiastically, and the new students drink in the sights with avid excitement. Sirius sees the amber-eyed boy from the muggle platform standing in the corner where his father is talking to him rapidly. A few feet away, a boy with large spectacles is tugging a young girl's long brow ponytail. She ducks quickly, turning to yell at the boy, who laughs, pushes his glasses up the bridge of his nose and backs off, making rude gestures to rile her further.

Sirius feels a sudden desire to join in their frolicking, see what it is like to pull a girl's hair without being flogged by his parents for it, or laugh loudly like the boy is without being told to behave himself lest he wishes to be exempted from dessert for a week, or simply move his limbs on his own accord, without having to ask for permission.

He feels a cold hand descend on his shoulder. As if she has read his mind, Walburga tightens her grip painfully in a subtle sign of warning. Sirius looks up at her face; it is tight and closed as she surveys the gay crowd around her.

"Your sisters will be here in a moment. We shall wait for them."

Regulus draws closer to his mother, but his eyes are wide and curious as he takes in the scenes unfolding around him. Inside, Sirius feels quite as Regulus looks; surprised, unsure, and very curious.

"Ah, here they come…"

Indeed, two girls have stepped out of the brick wall with their trolleys in tow. The elder one is whispering furiously to the younger, who looks rather cross. They catch sight of Mrs. Black and immediately halt their conversation. The elder one straightens and gives the three of them a polite smile.

"Aunt Walburga."

Mrs. Black nods. "Andromeda."

"Aunt Walburga. Sirius," the younger one acknowledges them with a false sweetness. Mrs. Black nods at her. Sirius ignores her. She sniffs disdainfully and flips her thin blond hair over her shoulder.

He nods at Andromeda though, and she returns the gesture quickly. She is sizing him up, trying to decipher what had been inflicted on him since they last met. When she concludes that he is quite intact, the wrinkles in her brow are smoothed. She turns to Mrs. Black.

"We're terribly sorry to have kept you waiting."

"Not at all," Mrs. Black replies. "We arrived shortly before you did."

The younger girl glances up at her sister with a hint of irate accusation, but Andromeda doesn't respond.

"I'm glad to hear that."

Mrs. Black eyes the two girls carefully. She adjusts the cloak around her, releasing Sirius' shoulder. "I shall be on my way then. I entrust my son's custody in your hands; see him onto the train and make sure he stays out of trouble."

She eyes a passing group of chattering girls with mounting distaste. "I do not want him mingling with the…wrong sorts. You understand."

"Of course," Andromeda says quickly, "I'll see to it that Sirius remains under my eye."

"I don't doubt you would," Mrs. Black says in a steely voice, "But your duties as a prefect and your seniority as a student would greatly limit your ability to do so. I rather think Narcissa here would take ap the mantle just as admirably, however."

Narcissa beams at her. Andromeda smiles tightly, "That's quite alright, I should think I could find time…"

"No need, sister," Narcissa tells her sweetly, "I'll look after our dear cousin."

"I don't need to be looked after," Sirius tells her harshly. Mrs. Black immediately whirls on him, flashing him a venomous look as she hisses.

"You will obey your sisters, _both_ of them, or face the consequences during our next encounter!"

The threat keeps him quiet, but he glares fiercely back at his mother.

"We should get him on the train," Andromeda says quietly.

Mrs. Black straightens, eyes boring into Sirius' face. "Keep well." Then with a nod each to the girls, she vanishes back through the wall with Regulus in tow. Sirius watches her go with a slight swelling of relief.

"Come Sirius," Narcissa titters. Andromeda glances sideways at her before beckoning Sirius to follow.

The train gives a loud whistle and students begin pouring in, parents hovering anxiously near the doors and windows.

"You take care now Eugene..."

"…have you your tonic on you…?"

"KEEP THOSE FINGERS OUT OF YOUR NOSE!"

Andromeda and Narcissa help carry Sirius' luggage onto the train and Poseidon hoots at the sudden onset of jarring noises about him. Enchanted paper planes and small noisemakers fly and crackle about him as the unmistakable cacophony of a large number of youth gathered in a restricted area makes itself heard. Straightening their robes and exchanging a quick word, Narcissa and Andromeda turn simultaneously towards Sirius.

"Sirius, I have to go up front for the Prefects' meeting," Andromeda says, "Narcissa will take you to her compartment. Please…do take care."

Sirius frowns slightly, wishing he had Andromeda's company instead, but dismisses the feeling with an uncaring shrug. With a last glance at him, Andromeda turns and walks the other way down the corridor.

"Come with me, Sirius," Narcissa croons, swinging her hair around and charming her trunk as well as his to levitate behind her. He follows her quietly, avoided stray children, hovering trunks and frogs that seem suddenly to augment in number as they make their way to the interior of the train. With a slight jolt beneath his feet Sirius has only to glance out of the windows to realize that the train has started to move, and he feels an unexpected thrill of anticipation as it strikes him that this is it, he is really off to Hogwarts, finally.

* * *

Narcissa leads him to a compartment near the end of the corridor which is obscured by curtains. She clears her throat and pushes the door, ushering a reluctant Sirius to step inside after her.

They are faced immediately with an unpleasant apparition that does nothing to ease the knot in Sirius' stomach. The girl looks down her long nose and fixes him with half-lidded, empty eyes.

"Rosetta Underwood!" Narcissa cries cheerfully, extending her cheek, whereupon 'Underwood' bestowes a dry kiss, all the while fixing her daunting eyes on Sirius' face.

"Come in," Underwood grunts, stepping aside to reveal the other members of her gang.

Sirius recognizes most of the people in the compartment. A large number of them have stopped by at the Noble House of Black during dinner parties, and some of them are regular visitors regardless. He instantly spots Lucius Malfoy, sitting in the center and lording over the company. Malfoy is a regular at the Blacks'; he is from a very wealthy family which traces its pure-blooded lineage back centuries. He is also the eldest in their compartment, excluding Blaze, a burly seventh year who looks as lively as a stone carving. Underwood sits back down on her seat primly.

Malfoy glances at the two additions to their assembly, standing at the entrance. "Oh hello, Narcissa," he drawls.

"Lucius," Narcissa purrs, making Sirius want to retch. Narcissa is evidently on very good terms with Lucius, as she has lost no time in telling everybody at home. Her mother had beamed at her and declared that her many conquests proved her worth. Bellatrix had commented that a boy would be a fool to overlook Narcissa in any case. Andromeda had asked how she had done in school, which had inevitably put a damper on things. Druella Black loudly commented eventually that finding Andromeda a suitor was proving to be slightly more difficult than expected. Sirius had snorted into his drink and mumbled that _Andromeda _for one didn't need a pretty face alone to prove her worth; she actually had a decent head to go with it. Perhaps not as much as Narcissa, but Andromeda Black is an attractive witch. All the Blacks are.

"You remember my cousin Sirius, of course?" Narcissa continues, putting a hand on Sirius' head. He ducks out from under it. It is a childish thing to do.

Malfoy regards Sirius coldly. "Of course."

Malfoy isn't particularly fond of Sirius, owing to the fact that Sirius' usual sparse conversation with Malfoy involves cheeky comments designed to embarrass him in front of whichever crowd he happened to be boasting to. It is needless to say that Sirius doesn't like Malfoy. In fact, Sirius doesn't like a lot of people in his family, which makes him rather cheeky in general.

"Aunt Walburga, you see, entrusted me with the duty of taking care of him; you know, making sure he's around the right sorts of people," Narcissa declares to the compartment. Blaze slowly turns his head to fix them with a stare. The rest of the occupants eye Sirius surreptitiously, sizing him up. Sirius eyes them openly, not hiding his large disdain.

"Of course," repeates Malfoy, looking a little happier. This is his area of expertise, after all. "Not to worry Sirius, we'll introduce you to the right kinds of people here at Hogwarts. There are plenty of respectable families you can associate yourself with."

"I look forward to it," says Sirius, but nobody seems to have caught the sarcasm.

"I was just talking about it to Rabastian here, in fact," Lucius continues loudly, gesturing towards Blaze and Crabbe. Sirius had hardly noticed the puny body squashed between them, but as he lowers himself gingerly on a seat opposite, he sees a pinched face flash a sullen look at him.

"You are acquainted, I assume?"

"Yes," Sirius says.

"It's a shame he's joining his third year then, you two would have gotten along admirably."

Both Sirius and Rabastian eye each other like they heavily doubt that.

"The Nott twins are in his year, you know, Eugene and Hasting Nott? Very effluent backgrounds. You should make it a point to keep up an acquaintance with them, Rabastian," Malfoy says.

Rabastian turns his sunken eyes on Malfoy and nods weakly.

"I'm afraid I don't know much about the fresh batch this year," Malfoy continues. He scratches his chin and frowns.

"Fowler's starting," Blaze says suddenly, his voice hoarse and grating, "The eldest after Boston."

"Ah yes," Malfoy says, "Fowler's a good one to collect. His father's in the Ministry, on first name basis with the Minister of Magic himself, I've heard. Well Sirius, you'll do well to stick around him. I'll introduce him to you, if you like. You should have invited him here, Crabbe."

Crabbe grunts, as if forming a sentence was rather too much of an effort.

"Potter's here this year as well," Narcissa adds.

Blaze laughs suddenly, voice spiteful, "The Potters are a joke. The parents are off their rockers and the boy's rather full of himself. A waste of fine blood, if you ask me. I wouldn't want anything to do with that lot."

"The Potters may be a pack of blood-traitors, but that doesn't change the fact that they have connections," Malfoy speaks smoothly, "I wouldn't disregard the Potter boy if I were you. He has Britain's largest inheritance waiting for him to come of age…it quite largely overshadows _your_ inheritance, Blaze."

Blaze's face immediately becomes sour, and he settles back into his stony stance in his seat and says no more.

"Oh don't fret Blaze," Narcissa titters, "You know Lucius is only riling you up. So there's Potter and Fowler. Anybody else?"

"Boy called Snape," Underwood speaks up in her scratchy baritone, "Saw his name on his trunk when he dropped it on my toe, stupid blighter."

"Never heard of a wizarding family by the name of Snape," Malfoy frowns.

"Snape's half-blood," Narcissa pipes up, "He lives down on Spinner's End, a little way from Surrey. His father is a common muggle, and his mother's a Prince."

Underwood lets out a nasty hoot of laughter, "Disgusting. I can't imagine how they _allow_ little freaks like that a claim in the magical world."

"It's revolting," Narcissa declares proudly to all of them, "They shouldn't be here, they don't belong here, they taint the purity of our blood with their adulterated ancestry. They're crude and uncultured. No dignity, just like their muggle pedigree."

Sirius' immediately draws upon the memory of the little amber-eyed boy and his muggle mother with her simple clothes and clear, beautiful face. There was a kindness and strength of resolve in those eyes that neither Narcissa nor Underwood nor any of the people in the compartment can ever hope to posses, and in Sirius' opinion, he has never seen more dignity in anybody he has ever met.

"Now, now, Narcissa," Malfoy patronizes, "We can't help that Dumbledore refuses to see sense. He's a filthy muggle-lover himself. What we can do is make those half-bloods and mudbloods realize what worthless stink they are, and eventually they're bound to get the hint and simply drop out themselves. It's like filth – we can't help where it accumulates, but we sure can help clean it out when it gets dirty."

Sirius feels an acute flash of something akin to rage. He has always had a suicidal habit of dishing out saucy remarks when he should really just keep his mouth shut, and this time is no exception. Before he can bite down on his tongue, the words have already slipped out.

"Just like your mouth, Malfoy."

The silence that follows makes Sirius largely aware of how very _loud_ the train actually is clanging and chugging past expanses of green. If he strains his ears, he can even hear the shouts of the students outside through the muffliato cast on their door.

Time to make his exit.

Without a word, Sirius flies out the compartment.

* * *

The compartment door flies open, jarring Sirius out of thoughts.

Narcissa has found his sanctuary rather quicker than he had hoped, although it couldn't have been too hard, seeing that this was the only empty compartment left. She shoots him a sour look and sits unceremoniously opposite him.

"What were you thinking?" Narcissa hisses.

Sirius doesn't reply, lower lip protruding slightly and chin jutting out in a gesture of defiance.

"I'm trying to help you out," Narcissa continues, "and you really ought to behave yourself, these are people who can be your friends, who _will_ be your friends if you just _let_ them, Sirius."

Sirius feels his shoulders sag. She is right. These are the people who will be his housemates for the next seven years, these are the people he'll live with, eat with, sleep in the dorm with, and he has no choice but to get along with them if he wants a passive, at best, slightly cheerful life at Hogwarts. His stomach feels heavy with the thought. He is trapped.

"…Lucius especially, _such_ a wonderful fellow, can't you even try to get along? You're so absolutely vile around him, it's so embarrassing!"

Narcissa pauses and squints at him. "Are you listening to me? I will tell your mother about this, mark my words, if you should behave so."

Sirius has the sudden urge to stick out his tongue, but holds it in at the last minute.

There is a feeble cough from the corner.

Both Narcissa and Sirius whip their heads around and are met by a pair of eyes staring back at them as wide as saucers, domineering a large part of the pale face, which sits atop a slight body in a faded jumper. It is the boy Sirius saw on the platform. He hadn't noticed him when he'd stormed into the compartment. He feels a sinking feeling.

Narcissa narrowes her eyes, drinking in the boy's shabby clothing, small frame and curled posture. Her upper lip draws back in a sneer, and when she addresses Sirius, she keeps her eyes fixed on the boy.

"_That's_ the kind of company you want to stay away from, Sirius, that's the kind of breed I'm talking about. Uncultured, crude; that's what they are."

Narcissa's hostile glare makes the boy shrink into his seat slightly, but he holds her gaze quietly.

Narcissa acknowledges this as defiance, and sneers, "What are you staring at, boy? Don't you know it's rude to stare?"

The boy doesn't respond; he doesn't tell Narcissa that she is the one who is staring, and she is the one who is being rude, but he simply purses his lips and continues to hold her gaze in a maddeningly calm way.

At the end of his already thin patience, Sirius realizes that he can't take any more of Narcissa's antics, lest he blow his top at her and earn himself a torrent of punishments from his ever-ready-with-the-whip mother. He leaps to his feet, a sour taste in his mouth.

"Let's go," he barks abruptly to Narcissa. He avoids looking at the boy. It is Sirius' fault she is in the compartment disturbing his peace, and really, he doesn't want to inflict Narcissa's conceit on an innocent party.

* * *

He hasn't the slightest clue where Narcissa is, nor does he care, for in the last half an hour he has managed to fill his plate to the brim with more trouble than should be normal for an eleven year old boy on a train full of school children. Raging, he stomps his way to the front of the carriage where he had seen Andromeda head off earlier and stops only when he is at the front of the train, facing the Prefects' Compartment.

If he closes his eyes, he is sure to see red sparks of rage shooting behind his eyelids. How dare, _how dare_ that Potter kid insult him, who is he to judge where Sirius comes from? He doesn't know anything about Sirius, about being a Black, because he is just a stupid, spoilt, muggle-loving…

Sirius rubs his knuckles and scowls. His shoulder is bruised from where he had fallen when Potter had tackled him in their compartment and caused them to tumble onto the corridor in a tangle of boyish limbs and loud elementary cussing. The elder students had separated them then, the other boys jeering and goading and a blue-eyed plump boy had watched in abject horror and Sirius had suddenly had enough. He had fled the scene in a towering rage and the only person he feels he can tolerate right now is in a bloody prefects' meeting.

Unhappy, lonely and hurting all over, Sirius slides to the floor outside the door, leaning against the wall to wait for a prefect to step out. He scowls and pulls his woolen coat tighter around him, wondering if everybody at Hogwarts will be so unpleasant and fervently hoping he won't have to be stuck with the likes of Potter year round, and suddenly, he wishes with all his heart that he could just go home because at the moment, that seems to him a happier prospect.

It is a good twenty minutes before the door creaks open, startling Sirius out of his dejected musings. A tall girl with black hair steps out, nearly tripping over Sirius with a cry of surprise.

"What in merlin's…oi! What's the idea eh?"

Sirius jumps to his feet, staring up at the girl. The girl stares back.

"Are you a first year?"

Sirius nods.

She quirks an eyebrow at him, all her previous annoyance disappearing. "Is there…erm…something you want?"

"I want to talk to my cousin," Sirius replies.

She cocks her head. "Right. Does this cousin have a name?"

"Andromeda Black."

The girl's face clears. "Ah. And you are…?"

"Her cousin."

"I got that part, surprising enough," she says cheerfully. "Any particular reason you wish me to drag her out of a prefects' meeting?"

"None that concerns you," Sirius replies coldly.

She smiles at him. "They get cuter as the years fly. Sorry to break it to you young man, but I happen to be the Head Girl, and as such you will find that any business that requires one of my prefects to leave the very first prefects' meeting of the year does indeed concern me."

Sirius flushes slightly, be remains adamantly silent. The Head Girl regards him for a few seconds and she arrives at some kind of conclusion, for when she speaks next, she sounds cheerful again. "Well you wait here then, cousin of Andromeda Black, I'll go fetch her."

* * *

The lights are dim and it is dark outside so that he can only see grey streaks on a black background outside the window next to him. He is curled in his seat with a blanket tucked around him in a way only Andromeda can do, and though he would never admit it, he loves when Andromeda tucks him in. The lady with the cart of candy had come a few hours back and he had eaten a few chocolates, though he wasn't all that hungry. One or two people had come and gone; a tall girl with grey eyes like his who had talked to the Head Girl for half an hour, and a well-built blond boy who had looked like he was good friends with Andromeda because they had sat next to each other for a long time and they had kept smiling at each other, and he had even patted Sirius' knee while he thought Sirius was asleep.

The gentle rhythmic rocking of the train lulls him to sleep, or perhaps he is just tired from the last few eventful hours. Soon he will be in Hogwarts, soon he will be sorted into Slytherin and it will be back to pretending, back to retreating into his shell and avoiding the world and then there will be seven years of that, but right now, he wants to sleep, because when he sleeps, the world seems a little more friendly, and he feels a little safer. He is a child who has grown up doubting his parent's love because it was so little expressed, but he is a child after all and he craves the gentle reassurance that only Andromeda can provide him, and that Uncle Alphard had provided Andromeda. They are kin amidst a family of strangers, they are the mutations of a perfectly bred society, and they stick together in thoughts even when they are miles apart and they watch each other's backs without a word needing to be uttered.

They way Andromeda looks at him sometimes, the way she is looking at him now as far as he can perceive through half-lidded sleepy eyes, it is as if she wishes he were anywhere but here, and Sirius is too clever to feel hurt, because he knows that it simply means that she wishes his life were different. Perhaps because she sees her own childhood in his, though that might be doubtful because Sirius is certain that she never blatantly rebelled as much as he does, she knows exactly how to treat him, for she doesn't coddle him but pushes him to take care of himself because they both know that she won't be around forever, but the family name will. She does not force him to grow as his parents do, because that doesn't work and it only serves to cement the part of him that wishes to be a child forever, but treats him as a child, albeit a rather mature one, which he often doesn't deserve. She has always been the mature one, the way Bellatrix is the crazy one and Narcissa is the petty one. She had learnt quickly, and she had worked deftly, and she had figured out her own tricks to surviving, just as she lets Sirius figure out his.

She is no longer looking at him, but talking now, and so is the Head Girl, Edith Jude, and perhaps they are talking about him, but the solemnity of their expressions suggestes to Sirius that they speak of prefect duties, though he can't figure out what is making Andromeda's eyes flash like that.

The last thing he remembers before he falls back to sleep is the reflection of the compartment door opening in the window and he hopes that they haven't reached yet because he wants this moment to go on for a few more hours before he is ready to emerge from his cocoon of comfort.


	4. Of Shifts in the Atmosphere

_September 1977, (the next day) _

It was late Saturday afternoon, and the Great Hall was silent, expect for the scratching of quills and crinkling of pages being turned. Small groups of students were scattered across the four long house tables and Professor McGonagall sat on her seat at the teacher's table. On the far end of the Gryffindor table sat a girl, bent over her book as flaming red hair spilled onto the pages. She was jiggling a foot, lost in thought. She fingered the badge on her robes that spelled Head Girl, and she looked thoroughly absorbed in her own world.

Which was true, because Lily Evans had a lot going on in her mind just then. It was only the first month of school and she already had backlog. There was simply too much work to do, what with N.E.W.T.S. this year, and she was contemplating the limited number of seventh years inside doing their homework. Being Head was not easy walk in the park either. And the way things had turned out, not only was Lily seriously annoyed, but she knew, with a sense of foreboding, that she was in for a difficult time.

* * *

**_September, 1977 (The Hogwarts Express)_**

_Somebody tapped her shoulder._

_Lily turned, and her face split into a wide grin when she saw who it was. Her hair had grown over the summer and she seemed to have grown taller judging from where she reached when she stood next him. Laughing, she stepped forward and drew Remus into a warm hug._

_"I was wondering when you'd come!"_

_Remus smiled before extricating himself from her embrace. "Couldn't keep you waiting, could I?"_

_"No, I suppose not."_

_Remus pointed to the badge on her chest, "Congratulations for that."_

_She beamed, "Thank you, I…" She trailed off and the smile vanished from her face as she finally noticed James standing off to the side behind Remus. "Potter?"_

_"It's lovely to see you too, Evans," he replied._

_She glared at him coldly. "What're you doing here?"_

_He gazed back at her coolly, "This is the Prefects' Meeting, right?"_

_"Yes, which is why you shouldn't be here."_

_"No, I really think I should."_

_Lily rubbed her temple with her fingers and said bitingly, "Listen, Potter, we haven't even reached school yet, and I'm in no mood to deal with you and whatever chaotic mess you happen to bring along with you. Your face is definitely not something I want to see this early on, so please, do us all a favor and leave."_

_Then she turned to Remus, annoyed, "I can't believe you let him come."_

_Remus glanced once at James and then said to Lily, "Erm, it's not exactly negotiable, and you'll find that you really do need him here right now…"_

_"I'm still here you know," James snapped at them, annoyed at being referred to as if he wasn't. The warm spark that had lit inside of Lily as soon as she had climbed on to the Hogwarts Express on was cold and extinguished now with Potter's tone, and all it left in its wake was acute irritation._

_"Exactly. That's what I'm trying to fix," Lily shot back at him, sidestepping Remus. "Leave, Potter. We don't want you here."_

_He stared at her as she stood defiantly in front of him, taking in her hands on her hips and the hostile expression on her face. "Well that's too bloody bad then," he told her icily, "You're just going to have to get used to it."_

_Quite certain that he was going to say something he'd regret if he stayed here longer, he pushed past Lily and Remus and made his way to the podium. The rest of the prefects chatted amicably with each other, and none of them noticed James standing at the platform. He slipped his hand into his pocket and pulled out his Head Boy badge, which he pinned to his chest before clearing his throat loudly at the tittering audience._

_Lily, who was in the middle of stomping over to the podium in a huff of fury, froze midway, eyes wide. "No..."_

_The rest of the prefects didn't seem to have noticed James, and he cleared his throat loudly once more. Nobody took notice, and he rolled his eyes and took a deep breathe._

_"OI."_

_The room fell silent and the prefects finally turned their attention to the podium._

_"Better," James said. "Alright, erm…I think introductions are in order? Show of hands, please, those of you who know me."_

_Twenty-one hands shot up in the air obediently. James squinted at all of them, stopping when he reached the corner where a fifth-year Ravenclaw sat with his hands clasped in his lap. James looked at him incredulously._

_"Blimey mate, I was only asking as a formality. You really don't know me then?"_

_The boy tinged a bit and shook his head. James stared at him._

_"Where have you been living, under a rock?"_

_Some of the prefects snorted and the others tittered. James chuckled, "No matter, you know me now – I'm James Potter, and I'm your Head Boy."_

_The crowd immediately broke out into babble._

_"Any queries, doubts and requests for validation of the same will be redirected to Mr. Lupin," James said loudly, causing the upper-year prefects to laugh, and the younger ones to look about in confusion, "Oh come on, you've got to know Remus at least. Flitwick's Golden Boy?"_

_Next to a fuming Lily, Remus grinned at James in spite of himself. James winked at him and turned back to the prefects. "Watch out for that one, if you like your gum in all the right places. Right, now moving on – allow me the immeasurable honor of introducing to you my authoritative partner and your new Head Girl, Miss Lily Evans."_

_With a gallant sweep, James stepped aside to allow Lily space. Ignoring him and collecting her dignity about her to the best of her ability, Lily positioned herself behind the podium and surveyed the prefects coolly._

_"Right," she said tightly, "So here's our agenda for this year..."_

* * *

Lily groaned, resting her forehead on her arms. James Potter as the Head Boy? What did Dumbledore have against her? Lily hadn't been too surprised, honored, of course, but not surprised when the Head Girl badge fell out of her supply list along with her letter to Hogwarts. She was Lily Evans; responsible, bold, trustworthy. She had worked towards holding this position, she had maintained a perfect academic record. Fine, she was often too headstrong to heed the rules as she should, but perhaps Dumbledore had forgiven her for that, seeing it as a sign of a budding leader.

But James Potter? He was the bane of her existence, the spark that ignited her temper and never failed to bring out the worst in her. He was arrogant and cruel, and Lily could not comprehend how Dumbledore could possibly give someone like that a position of power. SHe had half the mind to storm into his office and knock some sense into his silver head.

Not to mention, James Potter had had it in for her since fourth year. Before that, he only pulled her pigtails and hexed her hair and saw her as a part of the student population to play pranks on. She had even managed to scare away Potter and Black during the preliminary years when telling the teacher was still a formidable threat. But in fourth year, for reasons unfathomable to Lily since all they did was fight and bicker and piss each other off, James Potter had claimed to have taken a fancy to her. It was preposterous, and ridiculous, and obviously an attempt to rile her further, make her succumb and then humiliate her in front of the entire school. James Potter's greatest win over Lily Evans. It was unbeatable.

She did not have a good history with James Potter. There were plenty of people who had a problem with James Potter, but she was one of the only ones of female origin.

* * *

_**November, 1974**  
_

_"Stupid blithering fool…"_

_The girl – Marlene Bennett, Lily identified – was stomping quite distractedly in Lily's vicinity and muttering angrily to herself. She slammed her bag onto the table, causing to Lily startle and tear a page of her book by accident. Without a word, Lily pulled out her wand and tapped the offended piece of paper._

_"…great big prat. Sodding thinks he's so great. Sneaky smarmy boy. I'll show him, by Merlin's most provocative…"_

_"…thongs?" Lily suggested amusedly, still bending over her Herbology book. The stomping and fidgeting stopped for a minute, and then the girl snorted._

_"I suppose that would do," the girl said. Lily looked up to find that she was grinning at her._

_She did not know Marlene very well, in spite of the fact that they shared a dormitory, and her bed happened to be right next to Lily's. She knew that Bennett was an old pureblooded family, that she and Adam McKinnon were best mates, and that they were both on the Quidditch team, but other than that, Lily knew next to nil. Mary had never shown an interest in Bennett, and Lily had never felt a need to show an interest in anybody but Mary._

_The girl had subdued substantially, had dumped her Herbology book unceremoniously next to her, and was now tugging her tray closer to herself. She looked at Lily, who was quietly picking through the dirt for her pods, from the corner of her eye._

_"Lily Evans, yeah?"_

_Lily looked up and nodded._

_"I'm Marlene Bennett," the girl ventured._

_"I know," Lily replied kindly._

_Marlene nodded. "Sorry for startling you."_

_"That's alright…"_

_"Potter does that to me," Marlene said balefully, pulling her thick Herbology gloves tighter down her wrists, "He's just so…"_

_"Crude," Lily finished. "Lecherous. Infuriating."_

_Marlene grinned, "I forgot you had a fairly decent reason to resent him as well."_

_Lily turned faintly pink at the reference to the recent occurrences between her and Potter which had the entire school smirking at her. She honestly did not appreciate any such rumors, especially not with her and Potter being used in the same sentence together, and she felt her mood drop a bit at Marlene's words._

_"Yeah well," Lily muttered bitterly. She identified a small pod trying to wheedle its way into the corner of her tray, and she swooped down on it with vehemence._

_Marlene must have noticed Lily's tone, because she immediately dropped the grin. "At least you don't have to deal with him outside Hogwarts."_

_Lily identified this as an attempt to make her feel better, and raised an inquiring eyebrow politely in Marlene's direction though she had no interest in delving into the subject of Potter's personal life._

_"I meet him almost every vacation," Marlene said. "Known him since we were really small."_

_"How's that?"_

_"We're family friends, we go back a long way," she paused here, tugging a strand of her hair in contemplation, "let's see…his great-grandmother and my grandfather's aunt twice removed – I can't for the life of me remember, were sisters by marriage. In any case, mum's been friendly with Mrs. Potter's sister since their Hogwarts days."_

_"Oh," said Lily, not able to think of any better response._

_"We're in the same social community. We move about in the same circle," Marlene explained. "The Pure Blood Elitist of East England and all that nonsense. It's not purposefully meant to be pureblood exclusively; it's just that pureblooded families go back centuries. They're all related in some way through blood or marriage, and their ancestry is really ancient, so they've been socializing for years."_

_Lily found herself developing a curiosity in spite of herself. She hadn't heard much about wizarding families, especially the pureblooded ones everybody seemed to regard as royalty. The only pureblooded family she had heard of popped in her mind. "Are the Blacks a part of your circle then?"_

_Marlene shuddered, "Dear God no…not for the galas, in any case. Imagine Walburga Black having Christmas dinner at the Stately Manor – Christ, that would be a nightmare. They aren't very liked – respected, of course – but I suppose their views are much too extremist for the Elitists of East England. They have their own circles to run in, with the Malfoys and the Crabbes. But we all do gather around for certain occasions, entirely for propriety's sake."_

_"Are almost all of them in Slytherin?"_

_"Most of them in any case. You have an oddball here and there, like Sirius Black, but those are very rare."_

_"So Sirius' family mixes with the Malfoys?" Lily asked._

_"Yes…which is why I hardly saw much of Sirius growing up as I saw James. James didn't see much of Sirius either. He was_ _there for this one occasion…I don't remember much though, we were six. Sirius was mostly sulking and Mrs. Black hardly stayed long anyway."_

_A sudden image of a small Sirius pouting in the corner of the room in shiny dress robes made Lily chuckle._

_"You do have the unluckier end of the stick, huh?"_

_"Yes, so you should be thanking your stars," Marlene smiled. Lily smiled back, and she felt a sudden kinship towards this girl who shared a mutual hatred for a common nemesis. It was more that Mary had offered her, and it was oddly comforting to know that Lily's disdain wasn't irrational or singularly abnormal._

* * *

Perhaps she grudgingly owed her friendship with Marlene to James Potter, although Lily was certain they would have hit it off eventually. Marlene and Adam were her lifelines now. And this year, Marlene needed her and Adam, what with the demise of her mother. Voldemort's attacks were burgeoning, and a sobering number of students had returned with summer memories flooded with funerals and lost relatives. Marlene, though a pureblood, was no exception. Her mother was very outspoken against Voldemort.

And she had payed the price. Her entire family had.

Marlene was a fighter, Lily knew this, and her sudden silence worried Lily and Adam. Lily however, frustratingly, was tied down with a truckload of duties that came with the Head Girl badge, and Adam had tacitly alleviated some of her guilt of not being able to spend as much time with Marlene as she wanted to. He was with her now, probably coaxing her out on the field. That was another worrying thing; Marlene refused to play. Marlene, whose life till then had been incomplete without Quidditch, now refused to play for the team. In spite of both her friends being a part of the team, Lily wasn't much interested in the game itself, but she understood how much it meant to Marlene.

"Hey Lily."

Lily looked up from her place. The girl who addressed her was petite, with a bob of limp black hair. Lily hadn't talked to Mary Macdonald in a long time. It was not as if they were not on friendly terms, but they had never bothered to seek each other out actively. Lily must have looked surprised, because the girl gave a tentative smile and gestured to the spot next to Lily.

"Mind if I sit?"

"Of course not," Lily said, clearing the portion of the desk beside her stack of books. Mary sat down and gave her a weak smile.

"The library's a bit...crowded. I thought I'd sit next to somebody I knew."

Lily's eyes met Mary's and an understanding passed between them. The crowd Mary spoke of were the Slytherins, the ones who lurked in the corridors waiting to hex the muggleborns, the ones who peopled the tables in the library and whispered obscene, dirty words under their breaths at them. They had always existed, but this year something had changed. There was a shift in the atmosphere. Hexes suddenly weren't enough, the attackers sought to draw blood. Sirius Black no longer defied his cousins out of contempt for them, but to defend his friends. Marlene never left Adam's side if she could help it. The teachers would walk the students to their next class under the pretense of getting a little exercise. Mary Macdonald no longer sat in the library because the words she'd heard over and over in her years at Hogwarts suddenly haunted her at night, whispered to her by bad memories in her sleep. Things were changing, spiraling out of control. It was times like these when they had to stick together. There were four muggleborns in Gryffindor in their year; Lily Evans, Mary Macdonald, Adam Winchester and Alice Fortescue. Perhaps the situation was not so morbid yet, but they wanted to maintain that count out of the Hospital Wing as fas as they could.

Lily thought over this solemnly, the responsibility of being Head Girl suddenly weighing down on her. She was the leader now; it was her duty to ensure the safety of her fellow students. She had to make sure her friends, her classmates, were safe. She was a muggleborn herself, and though she knew that a majority of the students sneered at a muggleborn Head Girl at a time like this, she had to stay strong even though it terrified her, the way things were going.

Mary opened her book. Lily turned a page, sinking back into her reading. Both girls returned quietly to their work, feeling slightly safer in each other's silent company.


End file.
